what’s Whitney Houston’s favorite type of coordination?
i hate this i hate u
I think I won the entire game
"you have van gogh’s ear for music" hahaha follow for more nineteenth century impressionist-painter burns
nah son, i ain’t got no snapchat. I’m old-fashioned. just fax it to me. fax me the nudes.
tumblr giveaway of thirty iphones my mom bought me. i just have so many iphones i’m giving them away. also a gold watch. i also have four brand new macbook pros lying in my house i’m giving those away too. also one of my kidneys. and $312.56 in cash. must be following me and fourteen of my closest internet friends. i’ll check. u have until four months in the future so u forget that i started this giveaway and don’t get suspicious when u don’t hear of anyone winning.
touch all the things
These GOP are evil.
This is real. This is a real senator, with a real idea. This is real. These are the people running our country.
*prepares party popper*
*nervously shakes the party popper*
*slowly falls asleep with the party popper*
*has a wonderful night with the party popper*
*gets married to the party popper*
It’s a beautiful evening in February. My wife and I are sitting at the fireplace, when suddenly a terrible image appears on the screen of my computer.
My wife looks at me. As I look in her terrified, cardboard eyes, filled with tears, she takes a deep breath, before saying with her shivering voice “It’s what you’ve always wanted, dear. Do it.” My hands start shaking and a lone tear rolls down my cheek. “I can’t, honey. I’m not like that anymore.” “I will do it.” a small voice behind us says. As I turn around, my eyes cross with my son; our son. “You don’t have to do this, Benedict.” I say, as I hold his hands.
Ignoring what I told him, young Benedict Popper-Are Optional holds my wife’s cardboard body in one hand, and her long, beautiful string in the other. With tears in my eyes, I turn my head away. A loud pop sounds behind me and I watch in terror as I see my wife’s confetti spread across the room.
"It’s what you’ve always wanted, dad…" my son says, putting his small, cardboard hand on my shoulder. "Yes," I say, "but not like this… Never like this…"
what the actual fuck